Noticed
by Dan Breaddy
Summary: You wrote because you had to. He watched you as you wrote. You didn't notice him. He noticed you. To every girl that's ever wanted to be kissed by Draco Malfoy with your last breath. D/G
1. Part I

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Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or places mentioned in this story. They belong to people with money.

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If I only had an ocean to compliment this sky

I'd pull it down, I'd paint it for you and never question why

Cause red would mean you love me

And blue would mean you care

But black, my heart when left alone, to cold and killing stairs.

This is the burning of a dream.

This is the burning of a dream.

The sound now turns to silence

But I keep spinning around

Naked in the rain of my own tears

As they fall into the bucket of your apologies

While closing everyone else's eyes

Because your own are shut

Not to see the volume rise again

~ The Sound by Further Seems Forever

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Noticed

Part I: Oblivious

You wrote because you had to write. The need to write was always inside of you. Words, letters, and phrases always pushing to be released. They tormented you, banged on the insides of your head, distracted you in everything you did, until you would grab a quill and let it all loose.

You stole to the library after your last class, Transfiguration, walking hurriedly through hallways and corridors. You sat your worn books on an empty table towards the back and began to repair their broken spines with Spellotape. You would do your reading later, you decided.

You opened the diary and wrote about the funny story a Hufflepuff girl told you in Herbology. The ink fades away, being absorbed by the thick parchment paper. You do not notice; this is normal. This is ordinary.

You wrote about the 'A' you received in Defense Against the Dark Arts from handsome Professor Lockhart, and thank Tom for all his help. He helped you study. He writes back, _You're Welcome_ in fancy script, the ends of his letters flourished elegantly. You look at his writing and feel jealous. You have ugly chicken scratches.

You wrote about the run-in with Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. He even spoke to you today, can you believe it?! You are overwhelmed with excitement and your cheeks became flushed at the mere memory.

He asked you about Harry Potter – the man that held his sweet Ginny's affection. You rolled your eyes but remembered that he knew nothing of Harry. He was not of your time. 'Who is he?' he asked, and you could visualize someone that suspiciously looked like your older brother Bill, making sure that you had an infatuation on a 'good' guy. 'He just wanted to approve of Harry', you told yourself.

You giggled to yourself as you think about _Harry Potter_. To you, he was a god, a divine being. He was so good in your eyes, so noble and valiant. You began to scratch down the words, adjectives that could possibly describe Harry to him. You wrote about his raven-colored hair and how it was always mussed and fell into his face. You wrote about his brilliant green eyes and how he wears glasses. You pointed out to him that Harry wearing glasses was a good thing – a role model to kids that you don't have to be perfect to be a hero. He agreed and asked you to continue. You grinned.

You wrote about the defiant lightening bolt slash on his forehead. It is beautiful to you, captivating and mystical. It is beautiful the way he does not try to show it off or flaunt it. If anything, he hides in, not as if he was ashamed, but not to distract, or draw attention to himself. To him, you know, that it was not his doing that ended Voldemort's reign. He thinks he just got lucky. Severely lucky. It is thin and long and a shade darker than his skin color.

Your words faded away and a message came back.

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How did he get this scar?

You almost rolled your eyes again, but stopped, remembering. You dipped the quill tip in your in inkwell and began to write again.

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He faced death – and lived.

The letters are small and choppy. They are hideously ugly to you, almost unreadable. You dipped your quill in your ink, not noticing the small drops that landed on your darned black robe. You poised to quill tip over the paper, preparing to write again. Your message shines still, a little duller, as the ink disappears into the paper. You move the quill away. The message speaks for itself.

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Oh really?

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Yes. He ended up saved the wizarding world, and the muggle world. Harry is amazing!

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When did this happen?

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I don't know exactly – when he was a little baby. It was amazing, Tom, it really was. To hear the story over and over again, it never looses it's appeal, I think. It's already gone down as world-changing history, and it really was, to have a little baby overcome the Dark Lord. No one knows how he did it, not even Harry! That's why it's so fantastic.

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How did he save the wizarding world then?

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You-Know-Who used the killing curse on him, but he didn't die. For some reason, it bounced off of him and hit You-Know-Who instead. It was bloody brilliant, though I wasn't there to see it. No one that's alive was there to see it, except Harry.

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What? _Avada Kedavra_?

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Yes. Please don't write that. Call it the Killing Curse.

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I won't anymore. Who is You-know-who, Ginny?

You bit your lip, debating in your head what you would say. Finally, you decided on what your father told you.

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We do not like to say his name. It is Voldemort. We call him You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, but I don't quite understand why. Mum says its because I wasn't around to witness what he did, but I still don't know why we wouldn't want to say his name. It's like we're scared of him and his name (Where did he think of a name like that anyway? It's rather strange), and courage is the absence of fear… or something like that. I can never remember.

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What did this man do?

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He went on a killing spree. Gathered followers and promised them that they'd rule beside him when he was kind. Murdered lots of muggles because he thought that wizards like he was were better than them – which personally I don't agree with. The years he reigned were dark times, everyone was scared and hundreds died daily. He didn't like muggle-born wizards or muggle sympathizers either. My parents lived in fear that he would come after them. It was horrible – Mum and Dad don't talk about it a lot.

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Why did he do that? Those horrible things to all those muggles and muggle-born.

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He doesn't like them, I guess. I don't know why, and it's not like he tells anyone. That would be very foolish of him, and I've always thought Voldemort was really smart. But no one talks about those years, they want to forget them and pretended they never happened.

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Why did he use the _Avada _– why did he try to kill Harry?

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I don't know either, no one does. Voldemort disappeared after Harry lived. The Ministry isn't sure where he went. Personally, I think he's dead, because no one has faced the Killing Curse and lived, except Harry, so I don't think that two people could do it. He really doesn't like him though.

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Harry must be very strong.

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Well, he's only twelve, so he's not nearly as strong as Charlie is. But he's such a wonderful person, and he's unstoppable on a broomstick! A natural, just shot off after Malfoy. Got him real scared, too, and almost got expelled! But McGonagall recruited him for the team, and the rest is history. He's the Quidditch Seeker for Gryffindor, the house I'm in, did you know? He plays with my twin brothers, Fred and George, but they're both beaters. Being a beater's easy, I think, you just have to whack a ball around. Being a seeker's harder, since you have to see the Snitch, which is really hard since the Pitch is so bloody big. And he's the youngest seeker in a hundred years! Did you ever play Quidditch, Tom?

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No, I was never really good at Quidditch and flying. He sounds like a good guy.

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He is. He is my brother's best friend. This summer, he came over for a couple of weeks before term and it was a lot of fun having him around! He insisted that he help de-gnome the garden, which I thought was very kind of him. I didn't see him much, he hung around with Ron and Hermoine more, but it was great having him around, at least.

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Wow. You must consider yourself lucky to know someone so famous.

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And he works hard in school so he can play Quidditch, and he's good at that too! And he's really cute, he's got black hair like you, and really green eyes, though he wears thick glasses. He's very nice about being famous too. That's why I like him.

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Author's Note: Please review and tell me what you thought of this odd (even odd for me!) fic.

I prefer long reviews over short reviews, but cherish short reviews over no reviews!


	2. Part II

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Disclaimer: All characters and places are property of J.K. Rowling and are used without permission.

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When all I have is on the floor,

Divided, divided.

When I'm a world away from peace,

Behind your eyes is where I know

I'll find it, I'll find it.

Cause who you are defines my dreams.

You already take me there,

You already take me there,

You already take me there,

Heaven in the here and now.

When I'm a broken hearted man,

Complacent and tired.

When I've been knocked out of the race

I've been a fool long enough

To fight it, to fight it

It's in your arms I find my peace.

- You Already Take Me There by Switchfoot

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Noticed

Part II: Obsession

He watched you as you wrote. You perplexed him because you baffled him with your bright, cheerful smile and odd habits. Slightly annoyed by you because you were a Weasley, and he was naturally annoyed at all Weasleys. But mostly, he was infatuated with you simply because you were you.

And he liked that.

And he knew that this was most certainly not acceptable. After all, you were you, and he was himself, and you and him, Weasley and Malfoy ('Malfoy and Weasley', he reflexively reworded). You were lower than him, a shame to the name of all wizards. You, and your family, were worse than the muggles. 

He vaguely noted that he also didn't care.

You smiled, looking down at the book on the table in front of you. He couldn't imagine why. Every so often, you would lift your quill off the page and look at what you wrote, which was an odd tendency, he thought. Then you would dip your quill tip and the scratching noise would start up again.

It was almost as if you were having a conversation with the book. He shook his head. His fondness of you was giving him funny ideas.

Like the rest of your second-hand books, the one you were writing in was of the same quality, he noted with some satisfaction. However, you, unlike him, did not care, he observed with disappointment. How could you walk around in rags, with books that appeared to be parchments held together by _Spellotape_, without care, without so concern, without so much as a fleeting thought? He would have rather DIED than used your book or parchment, something so ugly and cheap as yours. To purchase something whose use had already been spent was a public showing of your lack of wealth and a disregard to your family name.

He would never admit it, but you greatly puzzled him. The way that you could disappear flawlessly in a mass of chattering students, or the way you could be soft-spoken one moment and loud and rambunctious the next. Your writing routine puzzled him. Stop, write, stop, write, again and again. And he knew you always wrote like that because he always watched you.

He always watched you. Wherever you went, he was there. He found simple, primitive joy in studying you. You fascinated him. Your copper hair shone like gold, and it fell in soft waves around your face and down your back. It moved with the lightest sigh and was carried by the smallest breeze. Your face possessed angelic features, from your warm cinnamon eyes to your long eyelashes, from your simply shaped nose to your small pink lips. Your freckles were like stars in the sky, and he would name constellations after them. The Angel, the Graces, Aphrodite, The Butterfly, and the Innocent, to name a few. You were tall for your age, with thin legs and small, sloping shoulders. You looked fragile, but strong, an interesting contradiction that he found most appeasing. You wore your heart on your face, your expressions changing with each new emotion you felt, and he found his feeling connected to yours. When you were happy, he was happier, when you were sad, he felt worse. Whatever you felt was shared with him, and he felt it distinctly stronger.

But he didn't mind; though he would always let you know, with a hefty amount of scorn, that it was all your fault.

And he would never tell you, but he was slightly jealous. Jealous of that book that held your attention when Potter could not, and jealous of the way you loyally followed Potter around like he was the sun and you were a worshipper of his radiant light. He had someone follow him like that as well, but it was not you. He wanted YOU.

He wanted you to smile at him the way that you would smile at that book.

He wanted you to look longingly at him the same way you looked longingly at Potter.

He wanted you to look at him the same way that he looked at you.

He wanted you to notice him the same way that he had noticed you.

It haunted him, the thought of something like you, so close to him but so far out of reach. It vexed him that you were the only thing that he wanted that he couldn't have. He couldn't ask his Father for you, couldn't blackmail or pay for you. He couldn't use you, couldn't discard you when these feelings passed. You couldn't be thrown away and it made you more valuable to him. You were not his, and it made him want you all the more.

And he never told anyone, but he was angry. Angry because Potter didn't notice you, and never would, no matter how long you hung around him, or better said, followed him around like a faithful dog. He was angry because you didn't notice him, and would never notice him like he noticed you. He was angry because he noticed you in such a way in which he couldn't stop himself – his eyes were drawn to you as if they were connected. Nothing you did ever seemed to escape his gaze. He was angry with himself because he no matter how much he had told himself that he would not look, he would – a sneaky, sinful glimpse – and find himself drawn into your innocence. And he was angry because he didn't want to stop noticing you.

He could have had you. You could have been his, but he was proud. He didn't, and would never, associate himself with a younger student, even one as pretty as you were, regardless much he liked you. Even though it was only a year, the year difference signified that he was higher than you, a fact that he savored like a Chocolate Frog. And he would never, ever, treat a Weasley civilly. Speaking to one in tones that did not suggest that he was immensely annoyed and disgusted with the likes of you would be shame upon shame over his head.

He liked you, just not who you were. He liked you, just not your heritage that was clearly displayed in your red hair and freckled skin. His only hope was that one-day, you would be just as infatuated with him as he was with you, just as jealous of his objects of affection as he was with yours. He vowed that he would not stop until you were.

He tried to concentrate on his essay, but he couldn't. There were too many distractions around the library, and in his head. Vaguely, he could hear the scratching of quill to parchment.

Mostly, you distracted him. He didn't like it, but he did.

Your bright copper hair caught his eye wherever you went, and your twinkling eyes snagged his like a fish snags onto a worm. Your laughing voice, always happy, was angelic music to his ears. He would fantasize about a time when all you would notice is him, all you would see was him, and all you would think about was him.

Unknowingly, you were his dream.

To you, he was your nightmare.

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Author's Note: Much thanks to reviews Liebling, Trancos, bloody star, jane_valar, marchione (I sound end up sounding a lot like Ginny when I talk about a guy I like too!**), and raindrops, all who reviewed part one.**

Most of you mentioned the great characterization of the two characters. I owe the mention of Ginny's chattiness and Tom's lack of wordy-ness to my beta reader, who thankfully, caught it before I posted.

Please review!


	3. Part III

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Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places mentioned in this story, or the various quotes that are in it. Characters are property and copy-written by J.K. Rowling and the quotes have a general copyright.

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There's a song that's inside of my soul.

It's the one that I've tried to write over and over again.

I'm awake in the infinite cold

But you sing to me over and over again.

So I lay my head back down

And I lift my hands and pray

To be only yours

I pray

To be only yours

I know you're my only hope

Sing to me the song of the stars.

Of your galaxies dancing and laughing again.

When it feels my dreams are so far

Sing to me all the plans that you have for me over again.

So I lay my head back down

And I lift my hands and pray

To be only yours

I pray

To be only yours

I know you're my only hope.

I give you my destiny

I'm giving you all of me

I want your symphony

Singing in all that I am

At the top of my lungs

I'm giving it back

So I lay my head back down

And I lift my hands and pray

To be only yours

I pray

To be only yours

I know you're my only hope.

- Only Hope as preformed by Mandy Moore or Switchfoot off of The Walk to Remember soundtrack

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Noticed

Part III: Replaced

You write because you have to. The need is always inside of you; words, letters, and phrases always jumbling to get out. They torment you, banging on the insides of your head, distracting you, until finally, you grab a quill and let them all loose.

You are grown up now, just like your mother promised you would – much to your relief. You've become a stunning and attractive sixteen-year-old, with a tall, slender body; actual curves, straight, eye-catching red hair, a cute face, and a sweet voice. Your uniform no longer consists of hand-me-downs, they are brand new, a gift from your twin brothers, Fred and George. They bought them for you before school started, a sweet and costly gesture.

Inside, you are also sure that you have matured. No longer are you ashamed of your second-hand books and robes you own, you are actually quite happy and thankful that you have them. No longer do you fluster when you are spoken to or shy away from the spotlight, you act with grace and maturity in _almost _all situations. You are not the naïve, little, stupid first year student that was sadly you as an eleven-year-old. You are a quiet, beautiful, intelligent sixth year student.

No longer do you scribble down at the lightest notion, checking over your shoulder to make sure that no one would discover your secret. You write with reserve, confidence, and self-control.

Your books are stacked on the table in a tidy pile beside you, a little worn and the covers a little frayed, but they work for you. You'll have to bind them later with Spellotape.

But you are not embarrassed, unashamed of the state that they are in. You recognize the sacrifice that they truly are, knowing that your mum and dad had to go without something to give them to you; you are not petty.

But in some ways, you're still the same, the same eleven-year-old girl that you were five years ago. You still have a diary. Not the same diary, but a diary nonetheless. You doubt you will ever outgrow the need, or desire, to keep a diary.

A diary is the only thing to which you could spill all the secrets in the world, and it would not pass judgement. You could pour out all the trials and tribulations into it and would still find advice and hope. You could scribble in all the angers of your day and still find comfort and strength. You could write the worst poem in the world, or draw the ugliest sketch in the world, and you could find encouragement and appreciation.

All by re-reading what has already written.

And you can still become excitable. Like today, for instance. Your face reddens the same way that it has for as long as you've been alive; the tips of your ears flush and become hot, then, from the center of your cheeks sprouts tomatoes. Then the tip of your nose becomes tinted with a bright pink. They all spread from their central point, and soon your face becomes covered by a bright pink heated mask. You accept it because it is part of who you are, but loathe it anyway.

You open your diary, a plain nondescript parchment book with a leather cover, bounded together by long tanned thongs tied through three holes by the spine. You're the youngest of all your brothers, Ron, who is only one year ahead of you, gave it to you last Christmas, complete with two new quills, a playful, pink flamingo quill for the days that you feel silly and a more serious black hawk quill for the classroom. Accompanied with the quills were two wells of black and blue ink that, by the quality of which they write, did not come cheap. He put it, and a stout vanilla-scented candle and a small pocket guide with useful spells, in a wood box that you suspect he carved himself. You hugged him, happier than you've ever remembered at such a thoughtful present.

You begin to write about everything that happened today, important or otherwise. You want to remember it all, the good and the bad.

You start about the dream you had. It's occurred twice in the past; you confide to the page.

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You are lying on the ground, looking up at a blurred sky. The clouds are a solid ceiling of beige, unnatural for England. The air is warm and thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and death. It hurts you to breathe as if someone has placed concrete slates on your chest, but you must breathe; you cannot – must not - die. He stands over you, his hair falling into his face. You know that he is responsible for this, you can feel it. Darkness pulsates off him, and stings your skin. He is smiling at you, maliciously, and says something to you. You stiffen at his words; they pierce your heart like knives. You shake your head, denying what he says. You know it's not true, what he says is not true. He doesn't believe you. He says you never…

You never…

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'Never' what, Diary? You ask it, wishing it could answer. You close your eyes and try to bring yourself back to your dream, back to where you lay on...

On…

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Was that a battlefield, Diary? I think that it might have been. It smelt like one, and felt like one. Was I dying? If dying feels like I'm trapped underwater and running out of air, then I think I was.

I wish I knew.

The dream frightens you. Not because you are dying in it. Not because it feels so real that it really does hurt to breathe.

No, because you fear that it will someday come true.

The ink on the parchment does not fade away like it did before, so many years ago. Instead, your letters gleam a shiny black at the top of the page, under the date before drying. You blow over them anyway, your pink lips forming an O, careful not to smear the words.

Your handwriting has changed as you have changed. It has improved. It has soft flourishes at the end and is small, neat and orderly. It is legible.

Abandoning the morbid images of your dream, you begin to write about breakfast and the letter from your mother. From that, you list the events in great detail, describing the color, the sound, the smell, the height and shape of everything, from your early Charms class to Divination, your last class of the day.

You remember everything that happened today as if you were experiencing it right now. That is how your mind works, an impressive and immense database of people, names, pictures, dates, words, and events. You remember it all.

And you write it all. You do this because you have learned how to savor the moment, each and every one that you come to experience. Living each moment as if it was the last means that you are alive and living, something you treasure more than anything else. _Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow, we may die._

You pause, reminiscing about everything that has happened today, chewing the inside of your cheek and running your teeth over your bottom lip, racking your brain for anything that you have failed to mention so far. When you are sure that you have left nothing else out, you smile and begin to write again.

You always save the best for last. That is what you always do.

You write about _him_.

Not Harry, who was the _him_ of six years ago.

No, you write about another, a man who has replaced Harry.

Your writing becomes sloppier as your need to write increases. Your words become slanted more to the right as the thoughts in your head outstrip the speed that your hand can write.

You remember and jot down how you were convinced _he_ was watching – no, staring – at you during lunchtime, but scold yourself for being so hopeful. You remember how you felt, your heart racing with excitement when you stole a look at himand met hiseyes. You could barely chew the food in your mouth. You were so happy.

No. Happy is an understatement.

You were ecstatic.

You felt like singing and dancing.

Instead, you calmly took a drink from the goblet in front of you.

He is the object of your affection, the clandestine obsession that makes you blush everytime you think of him. He is the best-kept secret that you have.

You have told no one, save your diary, for three years.

Three years is a long time to like someone who obviously does not return your affection. You know that well enough. But you are not daunted by that fact, still optimistic, still confident that one day he'll notice you. And you are patient. You will wait for that day.

Even if you have to wait forever.

You don't look at him like he looks at you, when he does look at you. He rarely looks at you, because he thinks that he is above you, even though he isn't. He looks at you with disgust and contempt. You hope he can't read eyes, because you are sure that yours are as readable as a book or the face of a clock. You know you look at him with tenderness and you look at him often.

You find yourself helpless. You are drawn to him, to his complex character and elegance. There is always much to look at when you look at him. He moves with catlike grace and always knows how to react in any situation, even when he is not prepared. There is nothing that he can't handle. He is smart, the smartest of his house, and good-looking too.

His silver hair blends with his pale skin and contrasts with his dark uniform and his top-of-the-line robe. His hair resembles the color of the bright, pale moon and is long enough that he could pull it back in a small ponytail at the back of his head, if he ever wanted. Instead, he slicks it back each day, away from his face, giving him a mature, aristocratic look. It falls just below the tips of his bottom earlobe and just above the collar of his polo shirt. His steel eyes are firm and determined. They are the closest thing to a window to his soul. And he has one, buried deep within him; you know this, because you have known one with no soul. And he is not like the one who had no soul.

He is tall, taller than you, and had matured much since the puny, whiny Slytherin that you knew in your first year. His shoulders broadened, and his muscles grew with workouts and Quidditch.

He has grown into to every girl's dream man. You know not of one who has not once fancied his teasing smirk or his knowing smile.

Not one.

But there is more to him than what you know others see – want to see or care to see. He is noble, and sticks to his convictions, even if they are wrong. He is strong, but shows mercy. He knows the rules, even when he breaks and bends them. He is resourceful and cunning.

He is also human. You can clearly see the disappointment on his face when he fails to beat Harry Potter at Quidditch. You can sense the pride in his voice when he talks about his father. You can see his face light up when his mother sends him sweets in the mail. You can perceive his excitement and happiness when he receives a good grade. 

And even though he is human, to you, he is the image of a deity, perfect in every human way. It hurts to look at him day in and day out knowing his feelings for you are the opposite of yours, but you don't mind the wait, nor the pain. Someday, you're sure that he'll see you, just like the day you saw him.

The day you noticed him.

'Enough about him,' you scold yourself, the mental image of him dissolving away in your head. You already spend enough time idolizing him as it is. You dip the tip of the quill with a flourish and hold it atop the paper, trying to put thought into word. And then you pause as your eyes wander to the feather in your hand.

This quill.

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Ron and Harry had already begun cleaning up the shreds of torn wrapping paper that lay scattered about the Common Room floor, a tradition that was started your first year – the boys pick up the wrapping paper. It was now your forth year. The mysterious magic of Christmas had passed when you opened the final gift in your small pile that had lay at your feet moments before. You feel relieved, but slightly disappointed.

You didn't know why, and pondered why you feel so disappointed in the large armchair where you sat. You snuggled inside your Weasley sweater, a white 'G' in the middle of a forest green background. Mum made it the way that you liked it: big, room to snuggle and warm yourself. You took a sip of hot chocolate, thinking, thankful for all you had received, but still missing… something.

Ron stood in front of you, breaking your thoughts and concentration. You sat your ceramic mug full of frothy hot chocolate down on the coffee table in front of you and grinned wickedly at him, pushing the multi-colored paper off your lap and onto the floor, where he could pick it up. He scowled at you, who grinned cheekily back. He picked it up, his eyebrows furrowed, a gesture which made you laugh, and threw the mess into a trash-bag that Hermione held open.

"Hold on, Ron!" Hermoine exclaimed as he dumped the paper into the bag. He looked up at her, confused.

"What?" he asked, staring at the mass of litter he had thrown in.

"There's an unopened present in there!" she screamed. "I saw it, I swear!" Her hands dived into the bag. You sat up in your armchair. That pile came from you. Is that present yours?

Hermoine stood up, victorious, a wide smile on her pretty face. In her right hand was a long, slender box, wrapped perfectly in silver paper. Slytherin colors, though nobody noticed. A small glittery green bow was perched in one corner of the box. She read the tag that was attached to it with interest, and couldn't hide her disappointment when it was not hers.

One look at Harry's face, and you knew that he had not sent the present. Ron's confused look spoke for itself. She looked over at you. You perked up, looking hopeful. The present was for you.

You bounced off the chair and took it happily. It weighed next to nothing in your hands. Not even bothering to sit down again, you ripped the paper off. It glimmered as it fell to the ground. Under the wrappings was a small box with a lid over it. The box was made of thick cardboard. The bottom was a pearly white and the top was a hunter green, the same color as your sweater, with the inscriptions 'VW' on it in flourishing script. You wondered who 'VW' was; possibly a company you had never heard of.

Taking off the top of the rectangular box with considerably more care than you had taken off the paper, you drew in a sharp breath in surprise. Inside there were two quills, a large, colorful peacock quill and an expensive eagle quill. They were beautiful, the peacock quill with eye-catching feathers that were long and smooth to the touch. The eagle quill was long and magnificent, with proud white and brown feathers. They both screamed money.

A small note lay on top of their stems. It had been torn off a piece of parchment. 'Merry Christmas', it said. That was all. Someone had wished you a merry Christmas, and had spent a hefty amount of money on you. You smiled. You had needed new quills as your were breaking and tearing from writing the pages long entries in your diary. You were grateful and silently thanked whoever had given them to you.

Looking over at the quill, you realize that you had never found out who had given you such a wonderful present.

Oh well.

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Today, by the hands of the gods, you write, beginning a new paragraph like Mum had taught you, **I ran into Draco Malfoy in the library. Yes, Draco Malfoy, _him_. I had been writing a transfiguration essay for Professor McGonagall, and was just leaving my table when he walked by**. **He acted like a moron, as usual, but I didn't mind.**

"Weasley," he said, crossing his arms and leaning on a bookshelf that was across the table from where I sat. I looked up at him from stuffing my bag and prayed my cheeks hadn't become too red.

"Hullo Malfoy," I said, pretending I was preoccupied with putting my quills back into my quill bag. I avoided his eyes.

"Nice quill," he commented, looking at my flamingo quill. "Pink. Suits your face."

'_Oh dear god_,' I thought. "Thanks," I said, sarcastically, but definitely not more confidently, picking it up and twirling around the pink feather. "My brother got it for me for Christmas."

"Did he go without food for a month?" Draco asked, a smirk on his lips.

"You can survive with only one kidney, Malfoy," I retorted, looking at him with an serious-but-expectant face. He blinked, confused. I shook my head as if it was an inside joke.

See, Diary, I've been trying to master Malfoy's sense of sarcastic humor (or humorous sarcasm, whichever you choose), and it's been proving to be harder than it seems. He really is a puzzling character.

"This is a nice quill," he commented. I looked at him suspiciously.

"Thank you," I said stiffly.

"Where did you get this one?" he asked, picking up my peacock quill from the table where I had stupidly left it within reach. He twirled it, examining it slowly, as if inspecting it. I half expected a derogatory comment to fly out of him mouth.

"Look, this isn't Inspect-Ginny's-Quills Time. It's Time-For-Malfoy-To-Leave-Ginny-Alone Time," I said, holding my hand out for it. '_Please don't leave_,' I thought.

"Wait. How come you called yourself by your first name but me by my last?" Draco asked.

"When you talk about yourself in third person, feel free to use your first name and my last," I said, shrugging.

"Where did you get it?" he questioned again, ignoring my hand and changing the subject. "But, knowing _you_," he glanced at my hair with disdain and I could hear my heart break. "You probably stole it."

"Actually, Malfoy, you don't know me in the least, and I'd really, really appreciate it if you gave me back my quill."

"Where did you get this quill?" he asked again. His eyes held a questioning challenge, and I don't know why.

"It was a gift. I got it in my fourth year."

"From who?" he asked again. I shrugged.

"I dunno. It didn't say."

"Weasley has a secret admirer?" he asked, his lips curving. I couldn't look at him.

"Hm… who could it have been from?" he continued, more to himself as if it was his personal mission to figure out who it was from, waving the tip of the peacock plume under his chin. I followed it back and forth, sneaking glances to his handsome face every so often. "Mummy and daddy? No… they'd have to sell the family chickens to get you this…" I clenched my hands into fists, but vowed to keep my Weasley temper under control. I had to remember that he was just trying to provoke me.

"Those two mistakes you have as brothers… no, they would have sent you something like an exploding toaster…"

"They sent me a new set of dress robes for any and all occasions, the ones I had ordered from Madam Malkins," I muttered through clenched teeth. His gray eyes flickered at me with notable surprise.

I must admit. I had been surprised when I received the robes myself.

"Weasley… no, would have drained his savings for these - this… no, this had to be given from someone with money, no one in your family…"

He glanced over at me and my outstretched hand. "Potter, perhaps?" he asked with a mean grin. I could feel myself flush and cursed inwardly, then looked up to meet his gaze.

His eyes locked with mine, and I got a chance to look at them, to really look at them. They were beautiful to admire, deep enough to drown in, and intricate and complex, with layers and folds. They were totally different than any eyes I have ever seen before, Diary. They're GRAY. I've seen starburst hazel before and even eyes that are so dark they're black, but Malfoy's are really and truly GRAY!

"I don't like Harry like that anymore, Malfoy. I've matured," I said, picking up my Transfiguration book and stuffing it inside my bag. I could feel Malfoy's eyes on me and when I looked back up, he was smiling.

"You sure have matured. Where did scrawny, lanky, flat little Weasley disappear off to?" he mused, a grin on his face as he studied me the same way he had studied the quill. "But I must admit, I like the change."

"And where did the puny, whiney stupid little Malfoy disappear off to? Oh, there he is! Right in front of me! My, Malfoy, have you not changed! Look at you! Just as hideous as before." Malfoy glared at me and I shrugged. "Well, that's what you get for being a cheeky bastard."

"Fine. Forget my compliment."

Compliment? _Had _Malfoy complimented me?

"Forgotten. Though, I wonder how many girls have fallen for that pick-up line."

"None. All of them were good-looking to begin with."

I froze. Had Malfoy called me good-looking? I know I shouldn't be too hopeful, but it resembled a compliment.

Do you think Diary that Mal-?

No. Probably not. He was just saying those things to aggravate me.

I picked my diary up and he looked at it with interest.

"What's that?" he asked. I rolled my eyes, pretending to be annoyed.

"My diary. Now give me my quill and go away. Chase around first years or something."

"Chase around first years?" he asked me confused. I shrugged.

"Whatever you Slytherins do for fun."

"It's too much for your virgin Gryffindor ears," Malfoy said, smirking. Inwardly, I wondered if he was concerned about me, or mocking me. I hoped for the former, but it was probably the latter.

"Please. Spare me." I wondered if he was bragging or simply being truthful in a disgusting, Malfoy-style way. I hoped for the former, but it was probably the latter.

"You keep a diary, Weasley?" I wondered if Malfoy was intentionally dropping hints while he talked, or if I was overanalyzing everything that came out of his mouth. I hoped for the former, but it was probably the latter, Diary.

"Yes. Is that surprising?"

"Sort of. I can't say, really. You were always too quiet for my taste."

__

I'd scream and dance and shout if that would make you notice me, I felt like exclaiming to him. But he was right. I usually observe each day, not really partaking in it. I feel, sometimes, as if I'm totally detached, as if I walk through each day in a dream state and just _watch _myself.

"You _have _no taste."

"Since when?"

"Since when have you had no taste?" I asked, confused. "I thought you were born without it."

"No, you prat. Since when have you kept a dairy."

'_Please, drop the diary subject_', I pleaded.

"First year," I said casually, an image of Tom materializing in my head.

"Can I read it?"

"No."

There is no way that Malfoy could ever read this, Diary. He must not ever get hold of this. There's too much about him in here, I could never deal with the humiliation and mortification. Not now.

"Can you read it to me?" he asked hopefully. His look made me smile despite myself.

"No. Quit being childish."

"Why not? Is there something about me in there?"

__

Yes.

"No, I only write about important things."

"What? You mean I'm not important to you, Weasley?"

"_You are the most important thing in my life_," I wanted to say. Instead, I looked him straight in the eye and said, "Yes."

"I'm hurt."

'_Please, don't hate me any more than you already do_,' I pleaded. "I'm not sorry."

"Ouch."

"Now give me my quill and we'll continue on our ways. Well, actually my way. You're going to be leaving me alone." I held out my hand, waiting for him to give it back to me. And, surprisingly, he did. He gave it back and his fingers brushed over my palm, tickling and caressing it for about 3 seconds. I bit back a laugh and stuffed it into my bag.

"Who gave it to you? Your diary, I mean," he asked, changing the subject. He ran a hand through his hair and it parted. I wonder if it was soft and moveable, or hard-as-rock. I wish I could have touched it.

"Ron. This year for Christmas."

"He probably stole it," he said skeptically, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"That's really none of my concern," I said blatantly. I paused and smiled at him. "You're just jealous that you don't have one," I said.

"Why would I need a stupid diary?" he asked, disgusted and distinctly colder. "I'm not like you, Weasley," he said in a nasty tone. He pretended to pick up a book and open it, then look childish and silly as his poised hand began to move back and forth the invisible book. "Dear Diary," he said in mocking high tones, "Today _Harry Potter_ talked to me. It was so fantastic; he asked if I could pass him the salt!" he exclaimed in excited, breathy tones. I could feel my face become very, very hot and I inwardly cringed, his spoof entry resembling almost word for word like the entries in my second-year diary.

"Why don't you just leave me alone?" I retorted back, hoping to sound fierce and bold, like I had when I didn't like him.

I walked away and so did he. I don't know where he went, it was after dinnertime and I didn't see him again.

I wonder… I wonder if I had been too mean and nasty to Malfoy back in the library. But I can't have him finding out that I'm absolutely smitten by him. I just can't.

And I really do need to stop overanalyzing everything he says. It gets my hopes up too high too quickly and isn't it '_The taller they are the harder they fall_'? Isn't that how the saying goes? Oh well, I've forgotten. I know I shouldn't look too deep into _anything _Draco says, but – how does the saying go? _False hope is better than no hope_? Yes, false hope is much better than no hope, though authentic hope beats both of them hands down.

I hate the way I act around Draco. I feel so fake and so rude and mean, and I'm not really like that, Diary. I'm really quiet and soft-spoken and observe more than I interact or affect. And I really don't _hate_ anyone, not even Tom or Lucius! I guess that it's just that I've been raised around so much love and grace that it's easier to forgive than to seek revenge. And I really don't like to hurt other people's feelings, they have feelings just like me and they _are _people, after all, and it goes against everything that I've been taught. It's just that I _have_ to act like I hate him and I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!

I wish that I didn't have to pretend, to keep up a façade so that he won't suspect anything unnatural.

Sometimes, I wish I could act like he wasn't a Malfoy and I wasn't a Weasley.

I wish that someday, he'd stop hating me.

I wish that one-day, he'll see me as "Ginny", not as "Weasley".

I wish that one-day, he'll notice me too.


End file.
